


The Greatest Gift

by MostHopelessofRomantics



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, m-rated, sweet af, ultrafluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostHopelessofRomantics/pseuds/MostHopelessofRomantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira Cousland Mac Tir and Loghain Mac Tir share an emotional Satinalia.<br/>Modeled after "Gift of the Magi".</p><p>A contribution to the TMB Secret Santa Exchange 2015 <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bainsidhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bainsidhe/gifts).



> Characters borrowed from bainsidhe's _amazing_ fic [From the Ashes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4430924/chapters/10068209). I've seriously read and reread it a dozen times, and it just keeps getting better. Show your love and visit her story, and give it the millions of kudos and comments that it deserves!!!

Seventy-five coppers. That was all the money that Moira had been able to save.

Ferelden was still suffering the Blight’s pestilence, and the Cousland coffers had been drained feeding the folk of Highever. Her family’s castle was devoid of excess, devoid of wealth. Tapestries no longer hung on the cold walls of cracked slate and crumbling mortar. Regal furniture no longer decorated the rooms and halls. All but the barest essentials were gathered and sold. She lived out of three rooms, and slept on a bed of straw, but at least her people survived. She sat cross-legged on the bed, and stared at the contents of her small leather pouch.

Seventy-five coppers. And tomorrow was Satinalia.

Heartbroken, she wept. How would she ever find a gift worthy of her husband for a mere seventy-five coppers? Loghain was a magnificent man. He was kind and attentive. He was brilliant and engaging. He was handsome and amorous. And she loved him more than anything. Ferelden’s greatest General was deserving of the most greatest of gifts.

Moira sobbed, for surely one could not be found for seventy-five coppers.

For months she had sought the perfect gift. She watched for things to catch his eye. She listened for things to excite his voice. She paid attention during their walks along the streets that wound between the warmly-lit shops. He would enter the store curious, and exit crestfallen. That which caught his eye, or excited his voice, cost more than they had, and much more than the pittance in her pouch.

With shaking hands, she wiped the hot tears from her cheeks. She was Moira Cousland Mac Tir, Hero of Ferelden and wife of its greatest General. She had killed the Archdemon and lived. She could not be stopped then, nor would she be now. She would find a way to give Loghain what he wanted.

Rising from her bed, she strode across the room to her weapon rack. With the fierce determination of her devotion, she pulled the sword from its rest. Suddenly feeling heavy in her hands, she lowered herself to the cold floor and rested the silverite blade across her legs.

Candlelight danced in its mirror-like finish, and she caressed its gleaming metal. It was a symbol of her life and her duty. It was the Gwaren-made greatsword that felled the Blighted dragon, and it was all that she had left. It had to be worth something.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen silvers. That was all that Loghain had left from his military stipend.

The poisoning of Ferelden’s lands had forced the King to reduce his pay. The regency had a kingdom to feed, so he accepted the cut without protest. The Cousland coffers had been drained, and now his wife’s teyrnir was run on his salary of ten sovereigns a week. Their home was empty and bare of luxuries. His office, once warm and inviting, now looked like an abandoned storeroom. His collections, his books, his maps, all gathered and sold. He sat at his wobbling desk, holding his head in his hands as he stared at the pittance before him.

Fifteen silvers. And tomorrow was Satinalia.

He sighed dejectedly. His wife deserved far more than what fifteen silvers would buy. Moira was Maker-sent. She was sweet and gentle. She was fierce and beautiful. She was captivating and honest. And he loved her more than anything. Ferelden’s finest hero deserved the finest of gifts.

Loghain harrumphed, certain that the gift he sought could not be bought for fifteen silvers.

He knew his wife better than anyone. She would give everything of herself and ask nothing in return. When she slew the Archdemon, she was prepared to die for Ferelden. Indomitable woman that she was, she’d survived that which should have claimed her. He knew that she had sold nearly everything to care for Highever. A gift befitting such a blessing as she would certainly cost more than the coins strewn across his desk before him.

With a hard exhale, he dug deep and found his resolve. Placing his hands on his desk, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. He was Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane and husband of Ferelden’s finest hero. Nothing could have stopped him from retrieving Andraste’s ashes to save his love, and nothing would stop him now. He would do whatever he had to, to get Moira what she wanted.  

Slowly, he opened the only remaining drawer in his desk that had not yet been emptied, and reached inside for his last treasure. He unrolled the map of occupied Ferelden across the stained and pitted wood. Gently, he ran his calloused hand over the slightly faded ink marking his campaigns against Orlais. He traced the path of their advance against the chevaliers at River Dane, pressing his finger down onto the location where Fereldan freedom was won. This map had stayed with him since the rebellion. It had to be worth something.     

 

* * *

 

Moira’s breath hung as a fog in the chilly sea air. The echoes of her footsteps sounded off of the warmly lit buildings as she marched through Highever’s streets. She was bundled in her fur-lined hood and scarf, and tucked under her cloak, wrapped in tattered linen, was her silverite greatsword. She stopped suddenly at a large, wooden door engraved with an anvil encircled in Highever laurels. Before losing her nerve, she entered the armorer’s shop, hopeful he would give her a fair price .

Ten sovereigns for the sword that killed the Archdemon. Part of her thought the item priceless. But these were lean times for Fereldans. Grateful for the coin, Moira left the armorer - and the sword that defined her - behind.

Roughly wiping tears from her eyes, she walked briskly toward the next shop. Halos surrounded each of the street lamps, the light of the small flames catching hold of the icy air. She pushed on the ornate door of the small, stone building, and entered the comfortably warm store. She knew exactly what the was looking for, and after inquiring about the cost, she smiled. Eight sovereigns, exactly. She would have coin enough for a bottle of nice wine, and a leg of lamb. She left the goods shop and started walking home in the light snowfall to prepare her husband’s gift, and his favorite meal.

 

* * *

 

The street was deserted, save for a cloaked figure hurrying away from the store. Loghain stepped carefully along the snow-covered cobbles, his old boots having long lost their tread. He stood before the good’s shop door, and watched the flitting flakes dance in the lamplight. The precious parchment weighed heavily in his breast pocket. He placed his hand over the map, over his heart, and reached for the door, hopeful the merchant would give him a fair price.

Fifteen sovereigns for the map that guided Ferelden to freedom. Until that moment, it had been priceless. But times were hard. Grateful for the coin, Loghain left the shop - and his path to victory - behind.

Sighing heavily, he strode toward the next destination. With the strength of his devotion, he pushed open the large wooden door and marched across the armorer’s threshold. There was no need to peruse. He sought one specific item. Calling to the armorer, he inquired about the cost, and harrumphed in satisfaction when given the price. Twelve sovereigns, exactly. He would have enough for armor polish and a pastry from the baker across the street. He left the shop with the armor polish in his pouch, and the gift tucked under his cloak, and crossed the street to buy his wife’s favorite cake.

 

* * *

 

Moira wiped her herb-covered hands with her apron. Grateful for the chance to cook his favorite dish, she smiled as she slid the roasting pan into the stone oven. Loghain was always famished when he returned from his rotation, and tonight he would finally have a meal fit for a great General. His gift was safely stowed inside the wardrobe, and now all that was left was to await her love.

The wait was not long. Moira could hear the heavy steps of her weary husband approach their living quarters. Like she did every night, she greeted him at the doorway. And like she also did every night, she kissed him tenderly and reached to take his cloak.

“It’s alright, my love,” he said, “I can hang my own cloak tonight.” He stroked her cheek, and kissed her forehead, and walked straight for the wardrobe.

“Please, Loghain,” she said, “Don’t trouble yourself.” She dashed in front of him and reached for the brass clasp at his chest.

“Moira, it’s fine,” he said, “It’s no trouble.” He stepped past her and reached for the wardrobe door.

“Wait!” she cried out, “Don’t open that.”

Loghain lowered his hand. “Is there an Archdemon in our wardrobe?” he sassed. Moira lowered her head.

“There is something in there, yes.” She stepped to him and took his calloused hand in hers. “But I want you to relax before you see it. Please?”

He shifted uneasily before nodding his head. “Might you get me something to drink then, love?” he asked. Smiling, Moira bounced into the kitchen and poured a goblet of the good wine. He was sitting on the bed when she stepped back into the room, his cloak laid next to him. She offered him the cup and lowered herself to the floor to help remove his boots.

“Moira,” he said after taking a sip, “What are you up to? I ask because dinner smells amazing, this wine tastes like Heaven, and you are acting very strangely.”

She pulled off his other boot and placed the pair next to the bed. Rising to her knees, she leaned in and kissed her husband deeply before lifting herself to her feet. Moving to the wardrobe, she opened its crooked door, retrieving a linen-draped item from within.

“I searched long and hard,” she said, “to find a gift worthy of Ferelden’s greatest General.” She placed the item in his hands and pulled back the draping.

Loghain’s mouth dropped open and he turned his face to look up at her with misted eyes. In his lap was the ornate gilded frame that he had been eyeing all year.

“How?” he asked, his voice wavering with emotion. Moira ran her fingers through his dark hair.

“I sold my sword. I know how much you love your map, and this frame is perfect for it.”

Her husband looked back at the frame, and slowly shook his head. He set the gift down and reached behind the bed. Moira stared at the item which he just placed in her hands. Tears welled in her eyes and began falling as she ran her fingers over the intricate detailing in the exquisite leather of her new sheath.

“I sold my map. For the finest gift I could give to Ferelden’s finest hero.”

Moira sank into the bed next to Loghain. “Maker, what a pair we are,” she said softly, her voice quavering. Her husband slowly and gently laid his hand upon hers.

“It was your kind heart that drew me to you all those years ago, Moira.” He placed his other hand on her cheek, softly wiping her tears with his thumb. “You had faith in me from the beginning. You showed me mercy when none would have. You saved my life, and offered your love.”

He leaned forward and kissed her quivering lips. “The Maker gave me the greatest gift when He brought me you.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Moira’s face as she gazed at her husband through tear-filled eyes. “I love you, Loghain Mac Tir. My thoughts are of no other, my body craves only your touch, and my heart beats for you alone. My life, and my love, will always be yours.”

Her trembling hand rose from her gift, and with the finger that bore his ring, gently wiped away the lone tear that slid from his misty, blue eyes. “When your lips first met mine, I felt the world around us stop. There was no Blight. No Archdemon. No army ready to march on Denerim. It was just you and me. I knew then that I would love you forever.”

As she leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder, one of his braids brushed softly against her cheek. Smiling, she spoke softly into his neck, “Your love is the greatest thing I have ever known, and the finest gift I could ever be given.”

Slowly, he pulled back and turned her face toward him. His pale, blue eyes danced over her in silent reverence. Like he did every night, he kissed her with a tender passion that left her breathless. And like he also did every night, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close as he kissed her deeply. Without leaving her lips, he took her hand and placed it on his shoulder, and over the buckle of his vest. A sign, an unspoken plea, that tonight, right now, he desired her wholly and could wait no longer.

With their clothing strewn about the floor, they held one another tightly beneath the warm furs on their bed. Loghain was settled over her, and Moira ran her hands over her husband’s shoulders, and dragged her nails through the greying hair peppered across his muscled chest. She looked up at him, and lost herself in the desire within his darkening eyes. He gave her a small smile before lowering himself to impart a passionate kiss to her waiting lips.

“You are my world, Moira,” he murmured hoarsely as he sunk deeply into her. She moaned softly and arched her back in the ecstasy of his entry, and once she caught her breath, whispered, “As you are mine, my love.”

They moved together in the languorous bliss of practiced lovemaking. Since their first coupling in Loghain’s bedchamber, their bodies had never known another. Sensing each other uncoiling, they wrapped themselves around the other, swallowing their gasps and moans of climax with hungry lips and fervent kisses. Sated, they untangled their limbs and curled into a comfortable embrace. Moira lay with her head on Loghain’s shoulder and his arm around her.

“I think dinner is almost ready,” she chuckled as her fingers traced an invisible path through his chest hair. He harrumphed and placed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Shall we have dessert first?” he asked, as his free arm disappeared under the bed. Grunting as he struggled, he smiled once he retrieved the package. Leaning back into their previous position, he placed a small box atop his chest.

Moira untied the string around the thick paper. Her eyes widened and she hummed with delight. Sitting on the perfect pedestal of her husband’s chest was the most delicious apple spice cake from Highever’s bakery. She broke off a piece and held it for Loghain to take a bite of, before popping the rest into her mouth.

“You are too good to me,” she mumbled as she savored the divine treat. He tightened his embrace and brushed her rebellious auburn waves back behind her ear.

“It is _you_ who are too good to _me_ ,” he replied before licking the sweet glaze from her fingers as she fed him another morsel.

“Let me get your dinner,” she giggled, “before it’s blackened.” She rose from their bed and began to re-dress. “Unless you want your lamb well-done.” He shook his head, lifted the cake from his chest and threw off the covers to begin the search for his clothes.

 

* * *

 

Loghain and Moira awoke in the morning to the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries. Looking at one another curiously, they rose from their bed and donned their house robes before padding to the kitchen. Astounded, they both stopped in the doorway and stared into the room ahead.

On their small wooden table sat a large pot of coffee, a platter of fresh pastries and fruits, and a tray of cold meats surrounding blocks of various cheeses. And in front of it all, lay a folded note.

_Honored Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever,_

_A gift from your people, to you._

_Sincerely,_

_Ser Maxwell_

_P.S. - Please be sure to look in the parlor._

 

Both Moira and Loghain darted out into the parlor, which had stood empty for months. No longer.

Moira brought her hand to her mouth in awe, and Loghain circled the room in disbelief. Piled in the middle of the barren stone floor was a mound of gifts. Each one wrapped in colored paper or linen, each one with a note of gratitude. And atop the pile were two gifts that stood out from the rest.

With a trembling hand, Moira reached for a leather-bound cannister, engraved with the Hero of River Dane’s initials. And from within the parcels, Loghain drew a gleaming Gwaren-made greatsword. Attached to each, a small note which read:

_To our heroes, the greatest gifts ever bestowed upon Highever._

 

 

  



End file.
